The Hills Are Alive (They are? OMG! Run for your liiiiiiiiives!)

Ha ha, the hills arent really alive, I promise you, but what an interesting idea. Someone should make a horror movie about that. Anyway, on to more important things, tommorow starts the opening night of The Sound Of Music! I know ya'll are just all excited about that! Of course you should come and see the main characters, but you should also come and see me! The nameless nun with no lines!!!!!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!! Not that I'm bitter or anything. (Ha ha I'm really not.) But hopefully it will be a good show. I dont have butterflies in my stomach just yet....at least I dont think so....if there are I can't feel them. If you miss opening night there's also friday, saturday, and sunday to catch up on.

Thoughtshot

Blood covered every inch of the living room, once spotless with pristine white fabrics. Now they glowed crimson agony. The gun felt sticky with sweat beneath my fingers, and I let it drop to the floor. I couldn't breathe. How could it have ended this way? I couldn't believe the sight that was layed out before my eyes, or that I had caused it. I was terror stricken as I watched the last bits of life flicker from her eyes. Why did it have to be her? I wanted to rip the intruder apart as he ran out the door, laughing like a hyena. He tripped over her body out the door and i needed to scream. My best friend lay dying on the floor because of my poor aim, and never agin would she get back up. I couldn't handle this. We had been through so much together, and never again would we talk to eachother. I cursed my bad aim, and sank to the floor in a heap of tears. I was too devastated to chase the intruder. Rust reached my nose, the salty, bitter smell of her blood. The smell was overwhelming, blanketing the room in a thick fog of a sickly sweet stench. Her body lay limp against the floor, a sight my eyes couldn't bear, but also couldn't look away from. She was really gone. She was gone, and it was all my fault. Guilt bubbled up in my intestines, taking over my entire body.

His life was ending now. He knew it. Face to face with a vicious bingle tiger, all he could think of was the mistakes he had made in his life. Funny that he could be concerned about the coffee he purposely spilled on his co-worker when he was about to be devoured. Terror shot through him, and he knew that these were the last moments of his life. He should have never become a zookeeper. Accounting was much safer.

Story Time! : Asphalt

The road feels rough beneath my bare feet, polished and not used to the harsh realities of the real world. It occurrs to me that, in my position, I could have brought with me a pair of shoes that could stand up to any weather. I think of my rubber rain boots gathering dust beneath my bed at home, and the hiking boots that are shoved in the conrner of my closet. They had never gotten much wear, but now I long for them to be in my suitcase, calling for me to put them on. I jump from foot to foot as I make my way down the road, trying to avoid the searing heat that the asphalt attracts. Soon, though, I turn onto the plush grass, letting it cool the shallow burns on my heels. In a fit of tiredness, I lay out my blanket, watching it drape across the grass almost as beautifully as it had when Linda, the cleaning lady, fixed it in the morning. She would bring me tea, and we would laugh politely at her maid's jokes even though both of us knew very well that none of them were funny. I sigh. Those days are long behind me. As soon as my blanket hits the ground, I know I am going to have to pick it up again. Tired as I may be, it is too hot to sleep. I think of home again, as hard as I tried not to. I think of last week, when this whole messy business started...

I layed out on the veranda by the pool, groping for the jar of lemonade that Linda had placed on the table. Soon, though, I gave up on it. In order to reach it properly I would have to remove my hat, which allow the bothersome sun to pool its light into my retinas. I couldn't be bothered with such nonsense. I layed for hours out on that veranda, day in and day out, wasting my summer. It had never occurred to me that such interesting things were happening right inside my house. "Amanda!" someone called my name from inside the kitchen. I groaned in annoyance as I lifted myself off the chair. Daddy's voice sounded angry though, so I best not test him today, I thought. The kitchen was bathed in red. It was on the floor, all over the floor, and on Daddy's hand. And on Daddy's gun...

I continue to walk.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES!!!!!!!! YES, THE DREADED WRITING TEST IS TOMORROW!!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!!!! SAVE THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN!!!!!!!! (dont forget about me!)

Fried Green Tomatoes

So in creative writing class we just finished watching Fried Green Tomatoes (great movie by the way, ya'll should watch it.) and so now we have to finish these questions about the movie. Sorry if this may bore you, but it's for a grade.



1.The story of Idgie, and her confidence inspired Evelyn to be able to confront her husband and his inability to make their marriage work. It also gave her confidence to face the people who take advantage of her.



2.The frame story is Evelyn and her life with her husband, and her conversations with Ninny. The main characters in the frame story is Evelyn, her husband, and Ninny.



3.The inner story is the story of Idgie and Ruth and their life in Alabama. The main characters are Idgie, and Ruth.



4.Becaue no one would expect Sipsey to kill Frank. They all expected Idgie to do it since Ruth was her best friend, and she threatened to kill him.



5.My favorite vingette in the story was when Ruth and Idgie were h aving a food fight in the kitchen.



6. Sipsey's head pounded, impeding her vision with tiny black dots that danced across her eyes. Vaguely, she could make out the picture of Frank Bennett, running out the door with Buddy's cradle gripped firmly in his hands. She tried to scream for Big George, only to remember that he was out helping Idgie with the town play. Shakily, she pulled herself up off the floor, balancing on arms as thin as toothpicks. She could feel them ready to snap in half as she flung the frying pan into her hands. Warily, she let her footsteps drift her towards the door. She halted at the frame as the shouts of Frank and Smokey resonated through the trees, bouncing violently off the bark, and into the night sky. A thud sounded, and Sipsey peered through the crack in the door just in time to watch Smokey's body collapse onto the ground. As Frank fidgeted hurredly with his keys, she made her move. Her footsteps landed on sweet silence, allowing her to move undetected. Wielding the frying pan as if it were an axe, she raised it high over her head, and brought it down hard on the back of Frank's skull. She knew he was dead the moment she heard his bone shatter inside his skin. But she had no time to worry about jail, or sins, or any such selfish nonsense. She simply grabbed Buddy, and ran.

Writing Test On Tuesday

Okay, so the all feared tenth grade writing test is on tuesday. I know that we're supposed to be cool calm and collected about tests, but this is different. It's THE WRITING TEST. I'm pretty sure that I want to minor in creative writing, and while THE WRITING TEST isnt focused on creative writing, it's still writing, nonetheless. I get all paranoid when it comes to people grading my writing because I always think they're going to say that it's terrible and that I'm not any good, and that I shouldnt quit my day job. (Technically, I dont have a day job, but you get the gist.) And this isnt one of those study-your-brains-out-late-into-the-night-with-ten-cups-of-coffee kind of tests, it's one of those things where you just have to kind of trust your abilities. I have some people survey my writing, but they're never really unbiased. Mostly it's my friends and family, which is why i get so wigged out when teachers or other people grade my writing. Ever since the seventh grade when i got seriously into writing (I've always liked it but I never really pursued anything) I've been terrified of handing my writing into teachers. It's like a phobia or something. Lets see, theres my arachnophobia, um...needlephobia(?), and now this. Lovely. I'm a walking panic attack waiting to happen. (Therapists get your half moon glasses, and your clipboards ready!) Well, it's not that bad, but sometimes I just wish I were 100% sure that something I write is good. I have a sense, but I'm not a professional. Not yet anyway. *crosses fingers hopefully*